Everything You Ever
by Marvelicious
Summary: "There was a man," The demon hurries to say, its eyes focused warily on Castiel's blade, "a man you pulled out of hell, who broke the first seal holding Lucifer's cage. A man who convinced you to help him stop the apocalypse. The righteous man. Michael's true vessel. Ringing any bells?" Dark Destiel, horror/tragedy, AU Post-season 5.
1. Chapter 1

Heaven is empty.

Not literally; all around Castiel are his brothers and sisters, and God's presence can be felt – if not seen – once again. It is perfect. It is victory through a failed apocalypse after far too long. The victory is hollow though, and Castiel doesn't know why.

He serves God, whom he loves, and worships him gladly. It brings him gladness to carry out God's work: punishing the evildoers and purging the last of the demons from the earth. They have run scared from his blade, and it is not long before earth will once again be paradise.

He is a good soldier. He is God's soldier.

Still, he wanders the earth. Castiel is no longer a watcher, but able to act. He wanders and sees things that make him wonder, and eventually Castiel comes to the conclusion that he is searching for something. Occasionally there's a flicker – he'll hear the low growl of an old engine, or get a strong whiff of gun oil or whiskey – and Castiel experiences the strangest fleeting feeling in his gut. It disappears and then that empty feeling is back. Like he hasn't yet found what he's looking for – like something is missing.

He prays. "Father, is it your will for me to locate some artifact, some devil's gate?" He has been hunting down demons after all. Perhaps that is what his father wants from him. There is never any response, but Castiel has learned to act on faith. God's will is pulling insistently at him, and so Castiel goes.

He ends up in a cemetery somewhere in Kansas, old and abandoned. The wrought iron gate labels it 'Stull Cemetery' and the feeling in Castiel's chest soars. This is obviously where his father intends him to be.

There's no hesitation as he strides forward, eyeing the tombstones for some indication of why he's here. The stench of sulfur is strong in the nostrils of his earthly body. Perhaps a devil's gate is hidden here among this city of bones.

Something flickers from the sparse grass at his feet, and Castiel pauses for a second. The sun has caught some piece of human jewelry, lighting it up like a flame from within the dry grass. It's more than that though, for Castiel can feel the power emanating from the gold band, a force that seems to be calling for something like the hole in his own chest. Maybe this is the answer.

The feeling doesn't stop when he crouches down to examine it further. If anything, it intensifies. Castiel's fingers close around it, and that is when he notices a similar tongue of flame rising to the sky from only a few paces away. Memories of the great wars of history flash through his consciousness – loss, death and unbearable pain, and Castiel knows that this is no human piece of jewelry. This is the ring of War, the horseman. His father must intend that he retrieve it.

It continues to call to its partner even from within Castiel's fist, and the angel follows the shimmering glint of the sun against the metal to the second ring.

It's nearly identical, though the stone and its shape are subtly different. This time, he listens to the ring first, and knows before he picks it up that it was once the ring of Pestilence. Castiel is prepared for the wave of nausea that passes over him, the stench of sickness pervasive enough for a moment to overpower the sulfur. Combined with its brother, they magnify the feeling of longing. He knows his father wants him to find the other rings, and he must.

"Looking for something?" The smell of sulfur grows, and Castiel can tell that it is a demon behind him before he even turns around. The blade he carries within the folds of his trench coat jumps to his hand as he reaches for it, the wrath of God filling his being with the desire for justice.

It wears the face of a middle-aged man, his accent decidedly British. Underneath though, Castiel can see the ugliness there. The snarling, rotting flesh and black presence curdling it's host's blood. It holds another ring between its fingers. "The ring of Famine, perhaps?"

Castiel draws his sword, and it shines brighter than the sun, sending the demon cowering back in fear, ducking behind a headstone to escape its flame. It burns through him, with him, the power of it propelling him forward towards the demon he's about to rid the earth of.

It's scrambling backwards still, tripping over the stones as it throws its hands up. For balance or surrender, Castiel can't tell, but he hesitates. Never before has a demon tried to surrender, let alone refused to escape by smoking out of its host. Maybe they've simply gotten smarter, but it gives him pause.

"Whoa, not so fast there Cassy. I'm prepared to hand over the ring, but you'll want me alive."

"Why would I want you alive?" Castiel asks it, facing down the cowardly demon. "You are a wicked creature, and my orders are to destroy you all. What use could you possibly be to me alive?"

"You'll have questions. Here," it offers up the horseman's ring to him, shaking its head like he figures it's easier to show him than try to explain, cautiously edging forward, "just, catch."

It tosses the ring towards him, and Castiel reaches for it on reflex alone, giving the demon an opening. His fingers close around the cold metal, but the demon hasn't moved.

Immediately, there's a bright flash of longing – a different one than the other rings are making him feel. It's heady, earthy, lustful. He feels the tangle of limbs, the slip of skin against skin, of soft curves and hard lines all wrapped up into one. It burns like a fire underneath his skin, and Castiel is much too hot, but it's good, so good.

He gives himself over to the sensations, and they overtake him mercilessly. There's the searing heat of a soul laid bare, flesh under his hands. The feeling of stubble is rough against his body in places he's never truly felt. It's overwhelming, and Castiel's shaking with it, bright green eyes drilling all the way down to his grace.

He's gasping for air when the feeling finally ends, when it recedes enough for him to focus again on the demon in front of him. "What," He pants, unable to catch his breath for a moment, "What was that?"

The demon smiles, and Castiel is suddenly worried that he's made a terrible mistake. "Like I said, the ring of Famine. Tell me Cassy, what is it you're starving for?" The look on his face suggests that he knows.

"What manner of wickedness are you attempting to lead me into?" Castiel asks, ignoring him. "I will not abide,"

"You really have forgotten," The demon cuts him off, grinning despite the fact that his hands are still up in the air in a gesture of surrender. "And here I always thought they were lying about the heavenly brain bleach."

There are so many questions Castiel has running through his mind, but he's unwilling to ask them of this demon. At the same time, this feels like something forbidden, like it needs to be hidden. It's not something he can ask of the host, of his father. This may be his only chance for answers.

"What was that?" He demands, alert and holding his blade out again. "What did you do to me?" The heat won't leave him, pooling between his legs in a way that's completely foreign to him.

"You tell me." The demon challenges him. "The ring would have shown you what you're starving for. So tell me then, what does our little angel desire above all else? I'm guessing it wasn't daddy." His voice is taunting, and Castiel has to make a conscious effort to keep his righteousness under control. He should destroy this insolent creature of filth.

Instead, he's frustrated. He wants to rage, because he doesn't know what this feeling is, or why he desires it so much, and there's nowhere to turn but this abomination. "Explain it to me." He says darkly, tone threatening it to talk back to him. "Why do I feel like this? Why do I _need_?"

"What did it show you?" The demon looks excited, and a bit like it's trying to hold back a laugh.

It's too personal. Castiel doesn't want to tell him, doesn't want to expose himself this way. Not to his brothers and sisters, and certainly not to this abomination. This feeling is not something light or trivial, and it feels wrong to bare it for this demon's amusement.

He grits his teeth, "Flesh against flesh. Lust. It burns me."

"Amazing," the demon whistles, considering Castiel in a way he has absolutely no right to do. "You don't remember anything? Not one bit?"

The riddles are getting old. Castiel advances on him with his blade, shining bright from his fury. "Tell me." He demands.

"There was a man," The demon hurries to say, its eyes focused warily on Castiel's blade, "a man you pulled out of hell, who the first seal holding Lucifer's cage. A man who convinced you to help him stop the apocalypse. The righteous man. Michael's true vessel. Ringing any bells?"

There's a glimmer, a hint of _something_, but it only dances further out of reach the more he tries to pin it down. It mocks him, because now he knows that he does not know. But if he does not know, then clearly his father has a reason for it. It's forbidden to him, and Castiel cannot question his father's judgment.

"It seems my father has forbidden me such knowledge." He tells the demon, readying his blade to strike. He has no more use for this foul creature.

"Dean," it whimpers, cringing back from his light into the growing shadows of the approaching night, "His name was Dean Winchester."

It's like a dam has burst forth from inside Castiel's head, flooding him with memories. Half-remembered promises, touches – years' worth of memories of life on earth. There are monsters, there is fear and the constant risk of falling, but even more so, there is Dean.

Brilliant green eyes that look at him as if he holds the secrets of the universe in his hands, and dare him to throw them all away just as assuredly. There is skin and flesh, and a pleasure that Castiel doesn't know the words for. There's also a warmth to it, something sacred and shared. It's an incredible closeness – a profound bond.

The rough growl of Dean's prized car fills his head, the bitter taste of come and whisky mingling on his tongue. The smell of leather seats and an old jacket that smells more of gunpowder and oil than it does a skin. Long drives and nights spent marveling at his father's creation. There are whispered sentiments, arguments so violent neither of them leave them intact, all so passionate that it's all Castiel can think, no wonder heaven is empty. Because this, this messed up, forbidden human-ness, is what he's been seeking all along.

"Jackpot." The demon drawls, and Castiel remembers him too.

"Crowley." Castiel addresses him for the first time, and the demon's sarcastic smile only widens. He shouldn't do this. He's turning his back on his father and his siblings and his station and his duty and his destiny… "Where is he?" The ache in his chest is threatening him with never receding: reaching, yearning, for Dean. Only Dean. It's blasphemy.

"He found a way to follow his brother."

No wonder this cemetery held such a pull towards him. Castiel can see the fall from behind his eyes, Sam's determined leap into the pit in order to atone for his sins and save the world just as God brought him back. Dean had lay there, bloody and broken, mourning his brother, and Castiel had followed instructions. He had healed Dean and Bobby, and returned to heaven, where somehow his memories had been repressed.

He wants them back.

Castiel wants his memories of sin with Dean. The man he fell for.

It should feel like some huge precipice, like a huge decision that has the potential to shatter his world. He's never made a decision for himself, following God through blind faith and obedience, so this should be monumental. But it's not. He's done it before.

And this feels like the only choice he could ever possibly make – a foregone conclusion from the start.

"Take me to him," Castiel commands the demon, because he has raised Dean from perdition once, and he knows he can do it again, heaven's orders or not. But Crowley just laughs.

"No can do," He chuckles, "What makes you think I know where he is down there? Hell is a vast, mostly uncharted territory, and I have no interest in returning there anytime soon. Besides, I'm essentially playing fairy godmother to a few hundred people at present; I'm busy darling."

"You know exactly where he is," Castiel growls, trying to fight the urge to simply smite the demon. He'd forgotten how irritating Crowley was, apparently. "So tell me where to find him, or I will destroy you where you stand."

Crowley rolls his eyes, but Castiel knows he knows he's stuck. "If you follow the river Styx to its source, you'll find a lovely little side gate right into hell. From there, follow the hellhounds. Tell them you want Dean, and they'll take you to him. Oh, and watch out for the demons for godssakes – they'll eat you alive."

"Right." Castiel wants to smite him still, but he refrains, dismissing Crowley with a wave of his hand. The demon can wait. He has a river to travel, and a righteous man to save.


	2. Chapter 2

The river Styx is black as pitch, foaming up as it sloshes against the unyielding rocks. They're all sharp and dangerous looking, and Castiel knows that demonic weapons have been made from them in the past. The scent of sulfur hangs heavy in the air, bubbling up noxiously from the river. He tests it, crouching down and dipping a finger in the briny mess, and, like he'd expected, it burns. The water is corrosive and eats its way through Castiel's flesh, tearing its way all the way down to the bone.

He heals the finger easily, shaking off the last of the water, but the burn of it lingers on even after Castiel has coaxed his skin into reforming over the digit. So he won't be wading then.

It's easy enough for Castiel to fashion a small boat out of his grace to protect himself, figuring that any manmade material would probably be eaten away just as surely as his finger had. He steps into it, moves with the rock of it through waves that should not exist in such a small river, and when Castiel pushes off, he doesn't look back.

He's swept along with the current, left without a prayer of controlling his direction even if he tried, until it looks like the river is about to collide with a huge cliff-face.

Castiel braces himself, ready to take off if need be or simply prepare for impact. But he needn't have worried, because that's when the mouth of the cliff opens up before him, a huge jaw of stone swallowing the river Styx whole.

The water crashes against its jagged teeth with a deafening roar, dropping off into unknowable darkness, with no way to predict what lies beyond. Castiel hangs on tight, trying to be ready for whatever may come. He grips the sides of his boat, feeling the darkness of the river surrounding him, and in that moment, he's never felt so alive.

The angel feels fear once again, and he'd forgotten how exhilarating it felt – falling fast and taking the plunge head on. It's taking destiny by the throat, and, despite how turbulent the river is, he's never felt more in control.

_I'm coming Dean, _he thinks, just before the blackness engulfs him.

The giant maw closes around him, just narrowly missing his tiny boat as he's whipped one way and then the other, jostled relentlessly by the fierce current. A few flecks of water spray up, and they sting where they touch his skin, sizzling against the flesh of his arms and face.

Castiel ducks, trying to avoid the worst of it, and he's just in time to miss the gigantic figure made of even darker black than the surroundings that sweeps towards him. It hisses and Castiel can dimly feel the sensation of claws tearing into his back, shredding his wings and trench coat in the process. The air stinks of sulfur, and he bites his lip to keep from crying out, remembering what Crowley had said about the demons. He'd seen some truly fearsome creatures on his last descent into hell, and he has no doubt in his mind that Crowley had been telling the truth about them.

The thing shrieks, and Castiel worries that it can smell his blood. It could be about to go in for the kill for all he knows, but he curls up tighter into himself, willing his grace to hold him up. He can feel it starting to slip as he's distracted by the pain, but Castiel can't afford to think of what might happen if he were to fall into the acid river. Instead, he puts all of his energy into keeping his grace a solid shield between him and the corrosive water buffeting him from side to side, sweeping him deeper and deeper into the pits of hell.

There's another shriek, but this one sounds pained, and it's followed by the sounds of clashing teeth and flesh being ripped apart. It's being attacked. Another gurgled cry and both noises fade into the distance, sounding like they're far behind him already.

Cas straightens up, gingerly feeling around himself to touch his mangled wings. Blood trickles down his back as he does, and it's hot against his fingers, but Castiel doesn't have enough energy to do anything about it while using his grace to shield him from the Styx. He tries to ignore the awful sting instead, the pain that courses through him in waves, radiating out from his back.

An injury to his wings means disaster, but Castiel won't let himself think of that now. At least not until he's tried to fix it.

His eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness, and he can see things staring at him from every angle, peering out from cracks in the rock – rock that seems to be bleeding. Castiel figures that they're there because they smell the fresh meat of his injury, but as he looks around it quickly becomes apparent that the things in the darkness are hiding from him. They're curled up in the walls of the cavern made from human flesh, arms and legs sticking out at various points or tucked into their cubbyholes, all simply watching him with blood-smeared faces.

It's unnerving.

The last time he was in hell, Castiel had been surrounded by a phalanx of other angels, their combined grace lighting up hell so bright that nothing had dare cross their path until they'd penetrated much deeper. And apparently, they'd taken the scenic route; his vessel's stomach turns with disgust. But then it's gone.

He's swept along too fast to see what the creatures do after he's out of their reach, and the next thing Castiel knows is that he's crashing into the far bank with an incomparable force.

The boat grinds to a stop at the foot of a hill made of bones that seems to loom from out of nowhere, and Castiel looks around hurriedly, trying to reorient himself. The river continues on at an almost acute angle, dropping off into further darkness more abruptly than should be possible.

There's no indication of where it might lead.

Castiel weighs his options - though he doesn't suppose the hellhounds will be found in it's waters - and settles on getting out here. He re-absorbs his grace, the boat shimmering out of existence with its purpose served, and he puts it to work on healing his wings immediately.

His body goes slack from the pain, but that is of no import. Not compared to the disaster of permanent mutilation. Bracing himself on his hands and knees in the bones, Castiel keeps silent as his grace works to stitch his wings up like fire racing across his back.

There's nothing on him yet, and so Castiel hesitates for a moment before getting back to his feet, panting into the bleached femur directly beneath him. It hurts a lot more down here in hell than it ever did on earth, and he can feel the absence inside of him, like some of his grace was either used up or has deserted him.

Grace or no grace though, he came here for Dean.

That's the thought that propels him on, stumbling through the shifting piles of bone in search of the hellhounds that Crowley had assured him he would find.

Eventually Castiel sees three figures gliding towards him from out of the constant darkness, but they're definitely not hellhounds.

The demons approach until Castiel can see their faces clearly. They're all unremarkable to him, all three of them women. They don't appear to be afraid of him though, and they surround him in an instant.

"Oooh, Castiel," one hisses, her hands sliding up his thighs as she kneels at his feet, "such a pretty little angel,"

"Look what we've caught this time," another one sing-songs, voice grating in Castiel's ears, and he tries to block it out. She's touching him too, fingers dipping beneath his trenchcoat, attempting to coax it off him.

Taking a step back as he tries to dislodge them is a mistake though, because he simply backs into the last of them. She grabs him by the hip, her other hand darting between his legs and closing around his testicles. That's the moment Castiel finally understands Dean's expression 'got him by the balls' and it's definitely not a pleasant thing. "Mmm, baby, we're gonna have some fun with you,"

"Release me." Castiel demands, grabbing for his blade and pointing it at the other two who are steadily creeping forward towards him again. They just laugh, continuing forward. "Get back!"

"Aww, isn't he sweet?" The one holding onto him asks, breathing the words against his throat and following them with a swipe from her poisonous tongue. It tingles against his skin, but Castiel holds himself completely still, refusing to acknowledge her.

"Shed our blood and you'll bring the dogs," one warns, still approaching but at least cautious of the blade he carries. And really, that sounds like a great plan to Castiel.

"Then flee from here," he threatens. He knows better than to think that an enterprising demon such as Crowley is simply working the crossroads still, "your master Crowley assured me I would be escorted by the hounds of hell, but you are simply in my way."

"Don't you want to have some fun first?" The dark brunette asks, yet she frees his crotch, lifting her hand instead to Castiel's face, twisting his head towards her. "I could make it so good for you," she rubs her body against his as she speaks, whispering the words like a seduction on his skin, "surely you can spare a minute."

"I ought to smite you where you stand," Castiel informs her, gripping his blade tightly in case he must use it. "Unhand me, you foul creature." The power surges up under his skin, prickling at the surface from the indignity of this abomination's touch, and she leaps back with a shriek in the next second as her skin sizzles from the contact.

"What are you doing?" She screams, hands brushing ineffectively against her skin in an attempt to stop the burning. "Make it stop!"

"I am making love to you," Castiel assures her with a smirk, "surely that is what you intended."

His grace is made of pure love and faith, something she could never hope to handle, and the vengeance tastes sweet in his mouth as the other two demons flee without a backward glance.

"No!" She screeches, "not like this!" Her skin is starting to bubble, blistering wickedly. "Stop! Help me!"

Castiel steps over the still writhing body on his way. It's too late for anything to be done, even if he was of the inclination to accept her repentance. Pure grace is a poison to them; she'll be nothing but a pile of viscera in a few hours.

He continues on his journey, picking his way through the bones in search of the hellhounds. Hopefully the death of the demon near the shoreline will draw them to him, but just in case, Castiel listens for their vicious bark, waiting for the cacophony to begin.

It's not long before they start up, distant growls and snaps that alert the angel to the hellhounds' presence. He can hear the piles of bone shifting, yelps that seem to indicate an unexpected slide, and they're getting closer and closer until finally the beasts are in view.

They're giant dog-like creatures, but the form is subtly wrong, bent just out of shape as they charge, all slobbering mouths and grinding knives for teeth. They have no pelts, simply twisted muscle and bone, rippling ungracefully as they run. On closer inspection, their teeth actually are knives, bits of blades and razors jammed up into their jaws, the origin hidden by a bloody froth.

"Halt," he commands them, holding his hand out.

Immediately the hellhounds freeze, stumbling to a stop, and they stand there with sides heaving, eyeing Castiel with bloodshot and remarkably human eyes. Blood and saliva drip from their mouths, their faces twisted with exertion. But they're not past recognition. One in particular carries Dean's scent.

"Ellen, Joanna Beth, it is regrettable to find you here," he addresses the two in the front of the pack.

The smaller one makes a noise that's half a howl and half a whimper in response, dropping her head, though in pain, shame, or something else, Castiel cannot identify. Dimly, he remembers her as a young blonde smiling at him from across the table in Bobby Singer's house, then only as a memory obliterated by fire in saving the Winchester boys. Including his Dean.

"I am here for him – Dean. Will you take me to him?"

Joanna barks out an agreement before turning back to her mother and the rest of their pack, growling out something that Castiel hasn't a prayer of understanding. He can guess it was a dismissal though, because as she trots forward a few more steps to close the distance between them, the rest of the pack turns and runs off, scrambling over the hills of bone, awkwardly scrabbling for purchase on the shifting piles.

Another soft whine from Jo and Castiel turns his attention back to his now solitary companion. She looks up at him with tortured eyes, and Castiel hopes the journey will be short, because he does not want to see this. But his obvious revulsion does not stop her from nuzzling up to his side, nudging at Castiel's hand with her mutilated head.

"I am sorry," he tells her, "I cannot heal you," making his best guess as to her intent. No amount of grace can heal this creature now, and Castiel worries briefly for Dean, but he wasn't among the pack. That small hope will have to be enough for him, as his fingers brush against Joanna Beth's bloody skull.

She barks something to him, looking up to catch his eyes again before she trots away a short distance. When she looks back, it's clear enough in her eyes and in her bark that she wants him to follow. So Castiel sets off after her, trying not to notice the odd gait of the human form bent into that of a dog's.

The hills of bone eventually give way to the fabled lakes of fire, brimstone forming uncertain pathways between the terrible craters. Jo is clearly ill at ease: her tail – which appears to have been fashioned from part of her spinal cord – remains tucked tightly between her legs as she skitters over the rock.

Castiel makes sure to watch his step, following after her cautiously. Screams wrench the air, humanoid figures only vaguely discernible within the flames, and he knows he will not be immune.

On his first journey down into the depths of hell, Castiel had watched his brothers get dragged down into the pits by their wings, miniature explosions caused by their graces as they died. He can still see it in his mind's eye, and the memories match up perfectly with the bluish-white scorch marks marring the otherwise dark stone.

Jo whines urgently from the other side of this obstacle, a clear request for Castiel to hurry, and one he's more than happy to oblige. The air is filled with the stench of sulfur here, and he pulls his wings in as tightly as he possibly can as he crosses the last precarious bridge.

The human forms surge up towards him, high above their heads, and yet clawing fingers reach for him, searching for some purchase to drag him down as well. _Dean_, the angel reminds himself for courage, sidestepping a fiery hand and quickening his pace as much as he can while keeping his balance without his wings to aide him.

He's yanked backwards suddenly and only just manages to stay on his feet. His wings flare out to help balance him, but that's a mistake. He tries to keep them high up, out of reach of the condemned, but his trenchcoat is on fire and they're tangled in it.

The hand gripping the hem of his coat gives another tug, and Castiel nearly falls, his wings dipping low to save him even as the fire rushes up his coat. He struggles with it, but then there's another touch of flames, one of the burning clinging to the tip of his left wing.

"Jo!"

It's agony as his feathers ignite. He tries to shake the thing off, feeling overwhelmingly like a trapped bird, being pulled down into the fire. A quick flex and it goes flying, smashed into the far wall with the force of Castiel's urgency, but others are climbing up and so are the flames.

And then the hellhound is there.

She whips around his legs, dealing a sharp bite to the flaming arm that still has a hold of him. Castiel can hear the crack of bone and the scream that accompanies, but he's busy hurrying forward towards the end of the rock pile, hearing the fearsome snarls of the hellhound on his tail and starting to feel the tongues of flame begin to lick their way through his coat.

He's free of the lake, and then a ripping noise splits the silence – Jo tosses the remnants of his trench coat from her scarred jaws.

"Thank you," Castiel whispers, falling to his knees to rest. Jo is sporting scarred marks all along the flesh of her sides, and her muzzle is badly burnt. The tip of his wing is singed beyond repair, and it'll be a miracle if he can fly, but Castiel knows that it's only due to the hellhound that he's even alive. She huffs a soft noise, and lays her head in Castiel's lap, smearing blood across the thighs of his pants.

It's not so gross to him at this point. Castiel strokes the exposed muscle and bone of her head, because it's the only thing he can think of to show his gratitude, and she seems to like it. Jo buries her head further into his lap, letting out what sounds almost like a sigh, and they stay like that for a while listening to the screams of the damned. They are frustrated at having lost such a catch, but nevertheless cannot come any further.

It's Jo then who decides it's time to move on.

She gets up with a shake of her twisted body, looking for all the world like a human pet if not for all of the gruesome changes.

Castiel follows her lead and climbs back to his feet, still utterly exhausted, but just as determined to get to Dean as he'd been when he set out.

It's that weary, pained determination that carries him through.

The hellhound leads him past gallows, past cages and past a number of other devices meant to torture, but Castiel barely sees them. He puts one foot in front of the other, cradling his wings close, and his prayer is Dean's name. They cross through deserts, over chasms, past monsters that God never intended and that have never seen the light of day.

He doesn't look up until he hears Jo's barks take on an excited pitch, and he hears her needled paws scratch feverishly against the unyielding stone as she suddenly sprints ahead.

"There you are girl!" A familiar voice greets her, sounding rather pleased.

Castiel tears his eyes from the path, and it's him – that's Dean's figure bent over to scratch the hound behind her misshapen ears.

And then Dean looks up, bright green eyes alight.


End file.
